


Not Shy of a Spark

by sirona



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Canonical Character Death, Case Fic, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-05
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:25:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noir AU. PI Arthur Lake gets called out to what he thinks is a routine case to help out a friend; things get a lot more complicated when he finds out who the victim is and meets William Eames, the person who found the body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Shy of a Spark

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the eames_arthur fic exchange. My recepient asked for a Noir AU, with Eames as a conman/thief and Arthur as an uptight detective/policeman. Title comes from "505" by Arctic Monkeys, which is one of my favourite Arthur/Eames songs out there. Massive kudos to Raymond Chandler, whom I tapped for inspiration while I was writing this, and a huge thank you to my fantastic beta zolac_no_miko for the quick and thorough job! I've made some changes to the final draft; all remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters belong to Chris Nolan.

It was just past 4.40AM when he got to the crime scene. The streets were still alight with colour, flickering neon reflected in the rain-washed sidewalks; the tires whooshed over rivulets of water crisscrossing the uneven asphalt. A few late-night stragglers stumbled down the road in his peripheral vision, forgotten as soon as the car had passed. He’d driven all the way out of Downtown before he reached the neighbourhood he’d been called out to, slowing down so he could read the house numbers on the wrought-iron gates.

He took a hard right at the corner past #38 and followed the flashing blue and red lights gathered at the far end of the cul-de-sac, right outside the biggest gate on the street. He huffed in resignation -- he hated working cases for the rich; they were never as straight as they made themselves out to be. Still, he owed Miles too much to blow him off -- not when his voice had sounded that wrecked on the telephone.

He slowed to a stop, parked the car haphazardly against the sidewalk and unfolded himself through the narrow door, taking in the scene. Policemen were everywhere, but there was none of the usual buzz of a crime scene -- everyone was far too subdued. He had a bad feeling at the pit of his stomach about that, and he trusted his gut feelings. He knew he ought to just turn around, get back in his car and drive away until he couldn’t see the lights in his rear-view mirror anymore. He was tempted all the more when the early morning chill seeped through his thin raincoat and stiffened his bad shoulder, until it was aching insistently in the back of his mind. And then he saw Miles.

He was huddled to the side of the commotion, leaning weakly against the passenger door of a police car. There was something about his posture that screamed of grief and shock; he’d seen it all too often in murder victims’ relatives. This case was getting better and better, he thought disgustedly; he wouldn’t be at all surprised if he were getting shot at by the end of it, it had that kind of slimy feel to it. Still, nothing for it. He squared his shoulders and walked over to Miles, taking in the ruffled fly-away white hair, the empty, red-rimmed eyes, and the blank look Miles had spared him once he’d walked in his line of sight before recognition dawned.

“Arthur,” Miles croaked, sounding ravaged. “Thank you for coming.” He didn’t apologise for dragging him out of bed, which was how Arthur knew it was bad, really bad. The apprehension in his gut intensified.

“What’s happened?” he asked tightly, reaching out to squeeze Miles’ arm in an effort to keep him in the here-and-now.

Miles opened and closed his mouth for a few moments, blinking tiredly and too-often. “Mal’s dead,” he said at last. Arthur closed his eyes as the pain tore its way through his body and went to town shredding his heart into pieces.

“How?” he asked gruffly.

Miles took a deep breath, visibly pulling himself together. “She’s been murdered,” he forced out from between clenched teeth. “There was a party, one of those things for Dom’s work, you know how she loves--” he stopped to clear his throat painfully, “--loved them. Apparently there was some gambling going on, cards and such. Dom said she got bored, went to get another drink and find the bathroom. Dom stayed behind; apparently there was a promising producer at the table, and they had gotten to talking... Anyway, Mal never came back, so Dom went looking, and then he heard some guy start shouting from up the stairs that he needed help, there was a woman in the study that wasn’t breathing, and...” He waved a hand, as if to say, 'here we are'.

Arthur sucked in a breath that went all the way to his toes, trying to get his head back on. Mal was dead. He’d seen her the day before; they’d had lunch with Cobb at that little bistro she loved on Jefferson Blvd. She’d been a little subdued, her spirits dampened by something she wouldn’t tell Arthur, no matter how much he’d wheedled. Dom had been understandably upset when she’d refused to talk to him as well. Arthur had been worried, had meant to call her tomorrow and go at her until she’d spilled whatever was bothering her and he could do something about it -- and now he’d never get the chance.

“Where’s Cobb?” he asked, looking around again -- he couldn’t see Cobb’s blond mop anywhere amidst the chaos. His eyes caught on a flash of gold from a reflecting streetlight -- it wasn’t Cobb, he could see that straight away, but the man was blond, too. He was almost as tall as Arthur, on the sturdy side, well-built from what little the badly-tailored suit showed, with long legs and arms that bulged in the jacket’s sleeves when he crossed them defensively over his chest, and scowled at the police officer writing something industriously in a small black notepad. The streetlight threw a dark shadow over his jaw, but Arthur could see the three-day stubble from where he was standing. He had no idea why his mind thought that this man was important enough to take notice of, but he’d learned better than to argue with his instincts.

“They’re questioning him in the downstairs parlour,” Miles said tiredly, jolting Arthur back from his reflections.

“They don’t think he has anything to do with this?” Arthur asked, jaw tightening in anger.

“They’re covering all their bases, you know that.” Miles sighed, and Arthur could see the night taking its toll on him.

“Yeah,” Arthur said. Standard police procedure, questioning the vic’s relatives. “They’ve spoken to you?”

“Not yet,” Miles told him, rubbing at his face with hands mottled from the cold.

Arthur considered for a moment. “Look. Why don’t you go home to Marie? I’m sure she needs you right now. Tomorrow will be soon enough to take your statement.”

Miles looked stricken for a moment before shaking himself and pushing off the car. “Yes. Yes, I should do that, shouldn’t I? I’ve not been able to tell her anything yet.” He made no move to leave.

Arthur led him gently towards his well-cared-for Crown Vic. “Go on, Miles. Who’s in charge?”

“Jamieson.”

“Fuck,” Arthur shook his head in disgust. “Okay, I’ll speak to him, tell him you’ve hired me to help out and I’ve sent you home. I’ll call you when I know anything.” He slammed the driver’s door closed once Miles slipped inside and tapped the roof of the car twice before watching it peel away slowly. He hoped Miles would get home without any trouble; he wished he could send someone to take him, but he was not part of the PD anymore, not after the Anderson case last spring. That had been the last drop in an already overflowing bucket.

He stalked forward, making his way to the front of the house slowly enough to get a good look at the layout of the property. Cops were crawling around every corner of the house; this was one of their own -- Miles may have been retired, but he was still highly respected, and this was his daughter that had been murdered. Half of the police force in the city was on high alert; the other half would be coming on shift in a couple of hours, and get all over this.

“Hey, Lake!”

Arthur stopped almost level with the blond man in the bad suit; he could feel the man’s eyes tracking him as he turned in the direction of the shout. McMillan jogged over to him -- bounced over, to be precise, his large belly hanging over his belt, barely contained by his uniform. A drop of sweat rolled down the side of his face and his greying moustache bristled when a rookie cop failed to move out of his way quickly enough. He shot a disgusted glance at him and rolled his eyes before trudging to a stop in front of Arthur.

“Does Jamieson know you’re here?” he asked gruffly.

“He’s about to find out,” Arthur said. “How’ve you been, Marty?”

“All the better for you asking,” McMillan grumbled. He turned to the guy interviewing the blond man right behind him and yanked a thumb over his shoulder. “That’ll do, Richards. I’ll take over.”

“Okay, sarge,” Richards said mildly, flipped his pad closed and ambled away in the direction of the jumble of police cars.

“This here is William Eames,” McMillan said, turning back to Arthur. “Eames, this is Arthur Lake, PI.” Eames nodded at him at the same time Arthur did, and for a surreal moment they looked like they were both bobbing for apples. It was almost enough to bring a wan smile to Arthur’s face. “Eames is the one who found the body,” McMillan went on, “but you didn’t hear it from me. I particularly never said that the CSIs are done, but the coroner hasn’t arrived yet, so now would be a real good time for anyone interested to check that room out.”

“Thanks, Marty,” Arthur said, clapping him on his arm.

“Eh, it’s Miles,” McMillan shrugged.

“Yeah,” Arthur winced, chest tightening as he was reminded all over again of the reason he was here.

“Take care of yourself, Arthur,” McMillan said out of the corner of his mouth as his shrewd eyes tracked a uniform making his way briskly over to where they were standing. “Get going, _now_.”

Arthur nodded and turned away. “Next Friday?” he threw over his shoulder quietly.

“Mike’s,” McMillan answered, a corner of his bushy moustache twitching.

Arthur walked a little way away, a hand at Eames’ back propelling him forward. He stepped into the shadow of a palm tree and turned to look at him. Even in the scarce light the man was impressive, broad-shouldered and solid, looking at Arthur from under fine eyebrows.

“Mr Eames, I know you’ve been talking to the police all night, but I would be extremely grateful if you could recount your movements from earlier tonight again for me.”

Eames eyed him consideringly. Arthur stood there, allowing himself to be examined, face as open as a paranoid PI could make it. Whatever Eames saw there, he sent him a small half-smile and nodded in agreement.

“I’d been invited to the party by Chad Harrison. He’s a director. I act sometimes, when I can get the job. I got here about eleven o’clock, sat down at one of the blackjack tables, played until about a quarter to two, when I got up to get another drink and go to the gents’. I went upstairs, walked down the corridor to the loos -- all the doors I passed were closed on both sides, so when one of them was open, I stopped to take a peak -- I know, I know, curiosity killed the cat, right? But I did, and I spotted a shoe on the floor. I thought someone had gone in for a bit of nookie at first, but there was no movement and they weren’t making a sound, so I went in to check if whoever was in there was okay -- I thought they might have been ill or something -- and then I saw that poor lady lying there staring at the ceiling. Her neck was all bruised and purple, and she wasn’t breathing, so I ran out and I guess I shouted a bit. And then the police came, and now I’m standing here talking to you,” Eames finished with a twisted smile.

Arthur blinked a couple times, just to get his bearings. The man’s voice was sinful -- low, husky, and that accent... Arthur had always had a bit of a weakness for Englishmen. He licked his lips before he realised what he was doing. Eames’ eyes flickered downwards for a fraction of a second before looking back up.

“Right,” Arthur said, nodding like he believed him. “Listen, this might be too much to ask, but would you come with me to the crime scene? Just so you can tell me whether M--the b-body’s been moved since you last saw it?” He was a little embarrassed by the way his voice had broken on Mal’s name, but Eames just looked at him, steady and unassuming, before nodding again. “Okay.”

They walked over to the front of the house, went up the steps and through the front door that had been left to gape open into the night. It was gone half five by then and the sky was showing the faintest hints of dawn around the edges, but the lights in the house were still blazing, lighting up every nook and cranny from top to bottom. Arthur gestured for Eames to go before him, since this was the first time he’d stepped foot in the place -- and he wanted a chance to take a closer look at the man. Something about his story just didn’t add up -- an aspiring actor would never dress like this, in a brown-grey baggy suit and salmon-pink shirt. It highlighted his sun-flushed cheeks nicely but did nothing for his body, and Arthur had been around far too many actors to know that this was not how you dressed to impress the punters. Besides, there was a small round bulge in the left-hand jacket pocket, almost but not quite hidden by the lousy cut of the fabric, and Arthur wanted to know exactly what that was.

Eames made his way up the grand staircase in front of Arthur, walking with a fluid grace that reminded Arthur of a dancer -- or a boxer. It would certainly explain the fighter musculature, and it made Eames all the more interesting, in more ways than one. Eames turned left at the top, lead the way swiftly to the third room on the right -- the study, it was clear the moment Arthur looked inside. There was a massive mahogany desk hogging the middle of the room, leaving little space for the shelves of books lining the walls and the luxurious burgundy chaise longue in the far corner. It was not the main study, that was clear, too -- Arthur would bet on there being a bigger study downstairs, where the owner did his paperwork and received visitors. This room was for private use only -- the books on the walls were mostly fiction, with a few historical novels and biographies filling up the spaces here and there. What was visible of the walls was painted pale gold; the room screamed opulence and grandeur. It was also empty, apart from the two pieces of furniture and the books.

Arthur looked around carefully, but there was no sight of M--a body. He looked at Eames, whose face wore the pinched look of someone caught with his pants down. Arthur’s eyes narrowed in turn. He rounded the desk, and yes, there was Mal now, spread full-length on the cream carpet, staring sightlessly off to the side. Arthur closed his eyes against the shard of pain digging into his chest and came round the desk again.

“Stay here a moment please, Mr Eames,” he said, tone brooking no argument. Eames wouldn’t meet his eye. He walked out and grabbed the first officer he spotted.

“You’ve canvassed this floor, yes?” he asked briskly, as if he had every right to be present at the scene.

“Yessir,” the guy answered automatically; POs were trained to recognise authority when they saw it.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

The officer pointed down the corridor to the opposite side of the house. “Down there, sir.” It was to the right of the stairs.

“No toilets or bathrooms on this side of the landing?”

“Nosir. There was a sign and everything when we first arrived. Anything the matter, sir?”

“No, everything’s fine. Good job. Keep it up,” Arthur said automatically; the man relaxed.

“Yessir. Thank you, sir.”

Arthur walked back into the room, almost bumping into Eames, who was trying to slip round the corner unnoticed.

“You lied to me, Mr Eames,” Arthur snarled, all the repressed emotions of the night catching up.

“I can explain,” Eames tried meekly.

“It had better be a damn good explanation,” Arthur snapped. “Now just wait there for a moment.” He crouched over Mal.

 _Clear signs of a struggle, bruises on her upper arms and wrists, hair mussed and splayed in disarray, turquoise dress torn at the shoulder, no jewellery -- taken? Paper from the desk strewn all over the floor, Mal’s lying on top of a few pages, so they were thrown before she fell,_ Arthur thought. The way her curls had spread indicated that she lay where she was dropped, and hadn’t been moved. One shoe had been knocked off, and her bare foot looked strangely vulnerable in its skin-coloured stocking. There was no blood, even from the scratch on her left arm -- it must have been done moments before death -- but there was a trace of blood under her fingernails that the coroner would collect when he got here, so she had scratched her attacker hard enough to leave marks. That would make it easier to identify the man -- man, because of the size and the spread of bruises, consistent with a large, wide hand that no woman could have unless she were extremely big-boned.

Arthur took a good look at the carpet, stood up and placed his foot in a particular spot right next to Mal’s prone body. The dirty footprints on the otherwise pristine cream carpet were two sizes bigger than his -- a size 13 then. That was one big motherfucker who had done this to Mal, there was no doubting that. That automatically ruled Cobb out -- he wore size 11 shoes, just like Arthur, so it was easy to prove that it wasn’t him. Arthur straightened and motioned Eames over, opening his mouth to explain.

Eames, to his credit, didn’t need it; as soon as he saw the print he stepped forward wordlessly, letting Arthur compare the two shoe sizes. No match. It surprised Arthur how relieved he felt that he had proper proof that Eames wasn’t the murderer.

“Okay, let’s get out of here,” Arthur said and headed for the door. “We’re still going to have a talk, you and I,” he told Eames, glaring at him over his shoulder.

“Yes, Arthur,” Eames said mildly.

Arthur was in the process of turning to snap at him that only his friends called him Arthur, and Eames was far from earning the right, when he heard the voices coming up the stairs. “Oh, fuck,” he groaned under his breath. He ignored Eames’ curious look and stepped smartly out into the corridor, positioning himself as if he’d been just about to enter the room. Eames caught on admirably fast, scuttling to the side and facing the door again.

“Lake!” someone barked from the top of the staircase, and heavy footsteps trudged their way.

Arthur turned, feigning surprise. “Jamieson! I didn’t know you’d drawn the short straw.”

“You’ll can it right now if you know what’s good for you,” the thick-set man said unpleasantly. “I know what’s going on here. The only reason I ain’t throwing you behind bars is that it’s Miles’ little girl in that room, and I know how the two of you are. This is your one free pass. Take your boyfriend and scamper, and don’t let me see you poking your nose around my investigation again!”

Arthur kept the snarl off his face by sheer force of will. He walked past Jamieson as calmly as he could make himself, feeling Eames get picked up in his wake. He stomped down the stairs and out the front door, stalking off to the side and stopping only when he’d reached the fence. He stood shaking on the grass, clenching his teeth and staring at the pale blue sky. He could feel Eames’ silent presence at his back, close but not touching. He breathed deeply for a few minutes, squeezing and relaxing his fists in a bid to calm himself, then tried for composed and turned to face Eames, watching him thoughtfully for a few moments. Eames looked back amiably, arms hanging at his side, hands pointedly open to show that he was unarmed, a faint smile lifting his lips. Whatever that man was, he wasn’t a murderer. He was something else, though, something Arthur couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“Come on,” he said at last, heading towards his car. “Let’s go get some breakfast.”

\---

The diner was an unassuming little space, with the prerequisite chequered plastic table covers and the grimy linoleum floor; but the coffee was damn good, and they had fresh pancakes at any time of day. It opened at six, and they were in luck -- the first customers of the day, calling dibs to just-brewed coffee and the sleepy waitress’ full attention. She was a bottle-blonde, tall and willowy, with hips too large for her size and the beginning of a double chin. She blinked at them a couple times before pouring them both cups of coffee the size of buckets and ambling over to talk to the cook. Arthur tuned out the low hum of conversation from the far corner, watching in bemusement as Eames ruined perfectly good coffee by spooning three sugars into it and splashing all of the little jug of milk inside, stirring all the while. He bit back the sarcastic comment on the tip of his tongue, contending himself with sipping at his decently black cup instead.

“Okay,” he said when he’d consumed about half of the life-supporting liquid. “Spill.”

Eames looked at him strangely for a moment, so intent that Arthur felt like he was being stripped layer by layer until just the core of him was left, naked and shivering in the light. The feeling wasn’t half as unpleasant as he would have imagined; the thought worried him a little while Eames’ heavy-lidded grey-green eyes bore into him. He waited for Eames to finish drinking from his cup and get to the point.

Eventually Eames seemed to come to a decision. “I was hired two days ago to attend the party at the Walliams’ house, break into the safe in the small study on the second floor some time that night and steal Mrs Walliams’ diamond and sapphire necklace and earrings. I think you know exactly which room in the house I mean,” he said, raising an eyebrow at Arthur. Arthur nodded and made a ‘carry on’ motion just as the waitress brought their pancakes over, slipping the hot plates deftly onto the small table. Eames smiled charmingly at her and thanked her sweetly; she blushed all the way to her dishwater roots. Arthur watched him with amusement.

“Was there a reason you needed to charm her panties off?” he asked.

“You never know when an extra pair of panties might come in handy,” Eames winked. The sight was... something. Arthur tried not to stare.

“About who hired you,” he said in an attempt to steer the conversation back on track.

“Man by the name of Cobol, Jonathan Cobol. He’s about 6’2’’, weighs probably over 200 lbs, hands like a pair of shovels. You see where I’m going with this?” Eames asked rhetorically, pouring maple syrup generously over his pile of pancakes and picking up his knife and fork, throwing Arthur a look from under his ridiculous eyelashes.

“I think I do,” Arthur said, dropping his fork. Unlike Eames, he’d lost his appetite. Jonathan Cobol had killed Mal in cold blood, leaving her to drop where she may. He was going to enjoy ripping that bastard to pieces.

“I sincerely hope you aren’t thinking about me with that scowl on your face,” Eames mused, but his voice was gentle. Arthur would have liked to know how much Eames had deduced already about Arthur’s connection to all this. Probably more than Arthur was comfortable with.

“Actually, no, but keep going and it will be,” he replied, narrowing his eyes at Eames, who just smiled back. “Tell me how to find this Cobol. I believe he can help me with my enquiries.” He bared his teeth is a rictus of a grin.

“Now I _know_ you aren’t thinking of going after this guy alone, because that would be a really stupid thing to do, and you don’t strike me as a particularly stupid person. In fact, I would bet a considerable amount of someone else’s money that you’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself one of these days,” Eames said--fondly? Damn, the guy worked fast. Arthur wondered what it said about him that the fact bothered him not in the slightest.

“Are you suggesting you come with me?” he asked, just to clarify what was on the table here.

“That bastard set me up,” Eames snaps, suddenly no more genial than a cobra coiled to strike. “I want to know why. You know I would’ve been arrested and charged with the murder if I wasn’t quick enough on my feet.”

The thought had crossed Arthur’s mind. He sized Eames up over the rim of his cup. Okay, what were the facts? Sharp, _too_ sharp, judging by his performance in the study back at the house. He’d placed Arthur correctly as soon as he’d seen him -- excellent at reading people, changed approach depending on whom he was talking to. Moved like a fighter; had the body of one, too. All in all, a good guy to have at one’s back, Arthur concluded; and if his eyes glazed a little at the thought of having Eames at his back, well, no one was any the wiser.

\---

“This is the place,” Eames said, directing Arthur to park the car a little way further down from a particular high-rise office building. “I followed him back after our meeting. I always try to get the scoop on potential clients before I take the job, see if they’re good for it.”

“Right,” Arthur said, turning the engine off. “How do we get up there?”

Eames smirked. “Watch and learn, darling,” he threw over his shoulder before sliding out of the car and striding swiftly across the street. Arthur swore and struggled to yank off his seatbelt and follow. He reached Eames’ side just as they plunged through the revolving glass door at the front.

As soon as they stepped out, it was as if Eames had turned into an entirely different person. It was like watching Superman emerge from the phone booth -- the baggy suit that had been hideously oversized a moment ago now looked casually elegant, falling to curve around Eames’ changed posture. His back had somehow gotten straighter, his shoulders squarer, his eyes larger; even his walk was different. He sauntered over to the front desk with the predatory gait of a panther on the prowl, full lips quirking up at the corners. Arthur almost swallowed his tongue at the makeover. The man was one hell of an actor.

“Good morning, my dear,” Eames said to the receptionist. His accent had thickened and rounded; he sounded as though plums in his mouth would not be a stretch of the imagination. By the look of it the girl was about as bowled over by the result as Arthur, and not for entirely different reasons, either.

“Good morning, sir! How may I help you?” she chirped, giving him what she probably thought was a coquettish smile.

“My name is Sir Roger Penrose, and I have a meeting with Mr Cobol at half past ten. I’m a little early; I don’t suppose it would be a problem to go up to his office and wait for him?” Eames’ tone implied that he was not fond of being refused. The poor girl fell over herself to reassure him.

“Of course, sir! Mr Cobol is out at the moment, but I’m sure he won’t be long if he has an appointment with you!”

“Thank you so much, how charming! Now, not a word, my dear! I don’t want him to worry that I’ve arrived earlier than expected, yes?” Eames winked and tapped his forefinger at the side of his nose. Arthur rolled his eyes at the overacting.

The girl, however, was smitten. She would have probably agreed to strip naked for him at the drop of a hat. Eames gave her a jaunty wave and strode towards the elevators with an easy grace that made Arthur’s mouth dry. He walked over to where Eames was standing, contemplating the lit arrows above the doors. The elevator pinged and the doors swooped open; Eames took a measured step inside, shifting so he was facing the front, back pressed to the rear wall of the cabin. Arthur followed. The doors swooped shut.

“What in the hell was that?” Arthur asked calmly. Under the circumstances, he thought he was being the model of restraint.

“That, my dear Arthur, was me plying my trade. You didn’t think I just waltzed into people’s houses and liberated their property without the slightest bit of effort, did you?” Eames said smugly, throwing him a look that sent Arthur’s blood rushing in his ears.

“Don’t you?” Arthur asked faintly. It was turning out to be one of those days when he wished he’d never answered his telephone in the first place. But then he would never have met the strange yet fascinating mess of contradictions that was this man; and when all was said and done, that would have been a terrible waste.

The elevator doors opened and Sir Roger Penrose was back, strolling down the corridor between offices filled with the click-clack of typewriter keys and the steady hum of conversation. Cobol’s office was the fifth door on the left, his name stencilled on the cut-crystal glass in big round letters. Eames checked the other doors and then tried the handle. It was locked.

“Hmm. A minor setback.” He slipped a hand inside his left-hand jacket pocket and pulled out a balled-up pair of thin black leather gloves, tugging them on quickly and efficiently. _Ah,_ Arthur thought. Then Eames reached inside his jacket and withdrew a set of lockpicks in perfect condition. He selected two and crouched down to look at the lock.

Eames’ position put them face-to-groin; Arthur tried not to think about that. “I should throw you to the police for this,” he observed.

Eames grinned up at him, full lips stretched over crooked teeth. “But you won’t, will you, darling?” he said cockily, eyes glinting in challenge.

Arthur sighed; he wasn’t fooling anybody. “I won’t,” he confirmed, turning to scout out the hallway while Eames worked. It was a matter of seconds to twist the lock open and for them to slide inside Cobol’s office. Eames locked the door behind them again.

The office was wide and spacious, the outer wall made entirely of glass. Arthur took a quick look around, knowing Eames was doing the same. Thankfully, there was only one room, though there was a tiny closet for hanging coats up in the corner by the door. The desk in the middle of the floor could rival the one in the Walliams’ house for size. There were two large filing cabinets in the corners of the room by the window; one wall had a leather couch along it, while the other housed four bookshelves full of big leather texts that looked untouched. Without a word to each other Eames headed for one of the filing cabinets while Arthur made a beeline for the desk. A quick check revealed the drawers to be locked.

“Switch,” Arthur called softly, indicating the problem. Eames walked over immediately, already reaching for his tools, leaving Arthur to take his place at the open file drawer. They rifled through paper in near silence for a few minutes, the only noise that of Eames clicking drawers open and closed.

‘Hey,” Arthur said urgently, pulling a file out of the “C”s and pushing the drawer closed. It had Cobb’s name on the front, and it was much too thick to be anything like innocent. Arthur brought it over to the desk and spread it open. A few moments later Eames joined him, looking over his shoulder.

“That’s the film Cobb was set to start shooting next week,” Arthur said, jaw tight with anger. “And that’s that piece-of-shit producer who couldn’t find his ass with both hands and a map. Mal told Dom to fire him, so he did.”

“His name is James Cobol,” Eames murmured in Arthur’s ear. Understanding dawned.

“You’re saying Cobol murdered Mal just because she had his whatever fired?”

Eames shushed him gently. Arthur was aware he’d been shouting. “I know, darling,” Eames said, hand curled into a fist on the desk. “I guess he’s not used to getting no for an answer.”

Arthur’s eyesight was greying out at the edges; he wanted to take that fucker by the neck and squeeze until no breath ever went in again.

And then two sets of footsteps stopped outside the door; keys were jangled before one of them was slid into the lock and the doorknob started to turn.

With impressive speed and presence of mind Eames flipped the folder shut, grabbed it and manhandled Arthur into the narrow closet, pulling the door almost closed just in time for the office door to open and Cobol to come striding in with the little weaselly producer at his heels. Through the tiny crack of light they saw the two walking to the desk; Arthur closed his eyes in despair -- he hadn’t noticed whether Eames had had time to put everything back in order. The space in the cupboard was so tight that they were plastered to each other head to toe, and there was no way for Eames to miss the way Arthur tensed.

“It’s okay,” Eames whispered in his ear, the words barely more than a breath of air; Arthur felt Eames’ strong arm snake around his waist and he was pulled even tighter into Eames’ chest. The warmth at his back was reassuring, and very welcome amidst the chaos of his thoughts.

Cobol went about his business with nary a glance at the top of his desk. He took out a small silver key from his pocket and unlocked the middle drawer, taking out something small and throwing it down on the desk.

“Make sure these are found in the Englishman’s flat,” he instructed the younger Cobol, who grinned maliciously.

Arthur leaned closer to the crack in the door -- it was a pair of emerald earrings that Cobb had bought for Mal last month, for their anniversary. Arthur’s vision went red; he was barely aware of Eames tightening both arms around his body now, straining to keep him from slamming his way out of the cupboard and beating the crap out of the guy.

“Let’s tie this up neatly,” Cobol was saying when Arthur tuned back in a few moments later. “He was at the party, he was the one who found the body; he’ll take the fall easily enough -- that’s what I hired him for, after all. Fuck, but I’m glad to be rid of the nosy little bitch.” He rubbed at the side of his neck with a wince. When he took his hand off Arthur could see four livid-looking scratches, not quite covered by the high collar of his lemon-yellow shirt. His heart broke for Mal, desperate enough to swipe at him with all she had, even when it hadn’t been nearly enough.

“Sure thing, Uncle John,” said what going by the photos must be James, dancing from foot to foot. The little shit was _excited_. Eames’ arms tightened some more, reigning him in, until Arthur was starting to have serious trouble breathing.

“Come on, then, I’ll treat you to lunch,” Jonathan Cobol said, squinting down at his watch. “There’s no rush, and you’ve a meeting set up with Maurice Fischer in a couple hours, anyway.”

The two men walked over to the office door, which clicked open and closed, locking behind them. Eames cautiously let his arms slip from around Arthur’s body, but Arthur was frozen to the spot. This was. It was just. Even with all those years in the service, he'd never got used to the way people hurt each other just for sport. He couldn’t move, just _couldn’t_ ; the weight of Eames at his back was the only thing keeping him from breaking into pieces that would never fit together again.

“Hey, hey,” Eames murmured, warm lips touching the shell of Arthur’s ear and stirring the small hairs behind it. Arms came around him again, not squeezing this time but just holding him close. Arthur was aware of the breath rushing in and out of his throat too fast, too frantic, closer to sobs that he wanted to admit. It was over; they’d found the killer, found the evidence to tie him to the deed, and there was nothing to keep Arthur focused anymore.

Eames turned him, pulled him in again until their chests were pressed together, until he could put a hand on the nape of Arthur’s neck and tuck his head under his chin so that Arthur could hide his face in Eames’ neck. The leather of the glove was buttery soft on his skin, and Arthur lost himself for a while in Eames’ warmth, his smell, the way their bodies felt, painted against each other while he relearned how to breathe. He didn’t know how long he stood there clutching at Eames for dear life, but when he pulled back at last, as composed as he could get in that moment, his chest felt cold from the absence of Eames’ heat, and he felt exposed and naked and so, so desperately tired. He could see Eames’ face in the faint sliver of light seeping through the open door, and he looked kind -- more than anything, he looked kind, like he understood. Arthur’s embarrassment evaporated as if it had never been, replaced by a curious kind of lightness.

“Come on,” he sighed, suppressing the urge to latch on to Eames’ lips and never let go. He pushed the door open all the way instead. “We’ve two assholes to get arrested.”

“And then?” Eames asked, looking at Arthur with hopeful eyes as he followed him out into the light.

Arthur thought of Cobb, thought of Miles, thought of poor Mal, finding her death because she wanted the best for her Dom, for both of them. And then he let himself drink Eames in for a long, perfect moment -- the way his plush lips curled up in the corners, the way he was back to looking like a fighter in a badly-tailored suit, the way his long fingers looked in the black leather when Eames flexed them by his sides, the way his forehead wrinkled when he lifted his eyebrows in enquiry, the way his eyes shone with so many things that it was impossible to read them all. But that was okay; Arthur would learn to, he was good at reading.

He grinned suddenly; by the way Eames stared at him in wonder, he supposed that his dimples were on full show. “And then, suppose I take you to dinner. How do you feel about Italian?” he asked, and Eames’ mouth curved in a smile so wide that it filled Arthur’s whole world. It was a hell of a view.

\-----


End file.
